


poltergeists for sidekicks

by bubbleteabunny



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-10
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2019-01-31 10:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12680103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbleteabunny/pseuds/bubbleteabunny
Summary: He doesn't remember the last time he's seen your face under the light of the sun and not under the artificial lights of his apartment in the middle of the night.





	poltergeists for sidekicks

**Author's Note:**

> have plans for a more fleshed out frank castle fic that was actually supposed to be my nanowrimo project but i'm just swamped this month with midterms so that was a no go... i still want to write that fic tho, might take some time, but it will happen!

Frank’s lost count of the days he’s come home to you already fast asleep.

It’s the middle of the night and he’s swearing under his breath when the door creaks despite how slowly and how carefully he’s trying to push it open. He comes to the conclusion he’s officially tired out of his goddamn mind when he realizes he’s muttering curses at a fucking inanimate object, and he sighs heavily, shoulders sagging as he closes the door behind him, twisting the knob so it doesn’t audibly click back into place. He holds his breath, expecting Max to stumble over to greet him, tail wagging aggressively and goofy smile plastered on his face, but that doesn’t happen this time, and Frank is thankful. Max’s excitement at his dad returning home has more than once woken you up. You’re never mad when he does though.

Frank takes his shoes off and leaves them by the door before walking silently to the bedroom. Max is sleeping right next to you, up against your back. Frank leans against the doorframe and smiles a little as he watches the two of you, doing his best to ignore the sting in his cheek when he does so. He’ll have a dark bruise in that spot by morning. A glance at the digital clock on your nightstand tells him it’s almost 2 in the morning, the red numbers a harsh glare. His eyes slide back over to you when you start to turn over onto your other side, Max scooting over to allow you space, only for you to turn onto your back, then back onto the side you’d originally been on. This isn’t first night you’ve been restless, and it’s out of the ordinary because usually you’re a very peaceful sleeper.

Frank slowly walks over to your side of the bed to sit on the edge, and he brushes back the strands of hair that have fallen in front of your face. Your brows are furrowed slightly, something he can see by the light of the alarm clock, and he wishes he could take away whatever was keeping you from sleeping soundly. He should be the one struggling to sleep with all the burdens he’s carrying, not you. For a moment he speculates what it could be that’s got you tossing and turning and he thinks it’s probably him. You worry about him a lot, no matter how much he reassures you he’ll be fine but he could never fault you for caring too much. His fingers have been gently running themselves through your hair while he sat there caught up in his thoughts, and this ends up waking you up.

“Frank?” Your voice is hoarse and you’re squinting up at him. As if on cue, Max lifts his head, and at seeing said man, his tail wags, thumping quietly against the mattress, but he doesn’t stand or try to climb over you to get to Frank. Maybe he understands he’s not supposed to disturb you. Or maybe he’s just tired too.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Frank whispers, smile apologetic for having woken you. “Go back to sleep.”

You grace him with a sleepy smile of your own and follow his instruction, eyes sliding closed. Frank leans over to pet Max, then stands back up so he can shed his dirtied clothes and swap them for something clean. As he does so, he notices you’ve stopped moving around so much.

You’ve left by morning since you have work early, and your side of the bed has long since gone cold. Sometimes Max stays there, keeping it warm, and when Frank stretches his arms, his hand passes over the dog’s fur. But today Max is absent from that spot, and when Frank ambles into the kitchenette of your small flat to make a cup of coffee (black, as always), he sees Max dozing on the couch, head all but hanging off the edge.

Since Frank’s line of work is reserved for when most of Hell’s Kitchen is already asleep, his day is spent assessing his newest array of injuries and double checking his leads to make sure the people he’s looking for are going to be exactly where they’re supposed to be come nighttime. He’s out of the apartment just as the sun is going down and you’re not even home yet. But that’s nothing new. It feels as though the two of you have always only seen the other when they’re asleep, and he tries to figure out the last time he’d seen your eyes in natural light and not in the light of of glowing red numbers.

His targets are holed up in an old warehouse in the dangerous side of Hell’s Kitchen (though isn’t all of Hell’s Kitchen dangerous?), and he already knows they’re going to keep his hands full. So he calls you from a payphone outside the liquor store on the corner using the loose change he carries specifically for times like this. He’s always the one to call you. He opts for payphones because it’s safer, but sometimes he uses burners. If he does, you memorize the number, never saving it in your phone.

You pick up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hey.” Frank’s voice is gravelly and fatigued even though he hasn’t actually kicked off tonight’s work, but simply anticipating the long night ahead is tiring him out.

“Hey.” Your voice is warm. “Are you okay?”

The concern in your voice is so apparent and Frank can’t help but smile. His gaze is concentrated on the ground, on the cigarette butts and other bits of trash stuck in cracks on the sidewalk. “I’m fine, yeah… Look, I might not be home until much later. Or maybe not even till morning, I dunno.” He sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

He can just imagine you on the other end, face dejected, pretty lips set in a frown that he wants to kiss away. You’re already home at this time, so you’re probably petting Max where he’s cozied up next to you on the couch. He used to never be allowed up there but you’re too soft on him. “Okay.” The response is curt but it’s clear you’re not angry. You’ve always been so understanding of what Frank does and he wishes that for once you’d get mad, that you’d yell at him for always being out so long and for never spending time with you. But you don’t. You never do. And it makes him feel even worse because you don’t deserve this shit.

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know how many times he’s said that.

“Don’t be.” He doesn’t know how many times you’ve said that either.

It’s nowhere near sunrise when he returns, but it’s a good amount of time past midnight. One last glance at the dashboard clock tells him it’s 3:12 in the morning by the time he’s parked around the corner from the apartment building. The injuries this time are more severe, and getting to his floor seems to take a lifetime. When he’s finally there, he makes a beeline for the bathroom, setting a hand on the counter to brace himself as he bends down to grab the first aid kit from the cabinet beneath the sink. He stands in front of the mirror in silence, studying the cuts and bruises littering his body, only looking away when he gets the distinct feeling someone is watching him.

You’re standing in the doorframe, eyes tired but worried as you take in his battered form. “Rough night?”

Frank sighs. Rough is an understatement. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. You should go back to bed.”

At this, you laugh quietly. “Kind of hard to do when I haven’t fallen asleep at all.” Frank doesn’t have time to respond to this before you’re walking farther into the bathroom and opening the first aid bag for the necessary supplies.

He gently takes hold of your wrist to stop you. “Babe, you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You look up at him but don’t pull your wrist from his grip. “Let me help, Frank.”

The two of you stare at each other for a few moments, but then Frank’s hand slips back down to his side. “All right.”

Some of the wounds are a bitch to clean up and stitch, and he’s doing his best to hold back grunts of pain, but he’s not always successful. With every groan and swear, you flinch as if you can feel his pain and apologize. Once it’s all done, you both sit on the couch in silence, Frank holding an ice pack against his head to try and alleviate the quickly forming black eye. You sit against the arm of the sofa, knees drawn up to your chest.

“Thanks,” he tells you, and he means it with his whole heart.

When you don’t respond, he glances at you to find you simply nodding your head in reply. You’re not looking directly at him, gaze focused instead on the opposite wall. He notices your eyes are shiny with tears threatening to fall and your lip is quivering yet you’re refusing to break despite the fact this is the safest place of all to let it out. But you can’t because Frank is strong and you need to be strong too.

“Hey…” Frank tosses the ice pack down onto the coffee table so he can open his arms. “Come here.”

You blink and slide your eyes over to him, and you don’t move right away because your body feels like lead. But he waits patiently, slowly wrapping his arms around you when you settle down in his lap, head nuzzled in his chest. He buries his face in your hair and inhales deeply. You smell like peaches. His grip on you tightens because  _God, he missed you_  and when was the last time the two of you had enjoyed each other’s presence like this?

His heart squeezes when he feels you shaking, tears staining his shirt but he doesn’t care. And he’s muttering things to you like  _It’s okay_ and  _I’m here_ and with every phrase of comfort he feels more and more like shit. How did someone like you fall in love with someone like him? He used to ask you this on the days when you actually got to talk to each other in the daytime (and not just over the phone), and you’d laugh and tell him you like to look at people’s souls, and of all those you’ve encountered—

_“—you, Frank Castle, have the most splendid soul I’ve ever come across.” Your grin is wide and you’ve never been so confident of any statement in your entire life._

So splendid, in fact, that even if, as of late, he almost never sees you (and whenever he does he’s always beaten up and bloody), you still love him more than anything. Multiple times he’s considered telling you to get away from him, go somewhere safe and find someone else, someone nicer, who can spend more time with you the way you deserve. You wouldn’t listen, of course, adamant about sticking to his side. Which then makes him think about being the one to leave instead, to pack up his shit and leave you with a note saying that he’s sorry and don’t look for him but he loves you and because he loves you as much as he does, he’ll keep the monsters far away. But he can already hear you asking  _“As if you don’t already keep them far away now?”_

He tries to convince himself that you don’t need him, that you don’t need the baggage he’s lugging around with him, but you’d be quick to refute that. You’d tell him you do need him, because it’s not these four walls that make you feel safe, but him. It’s always been him. And any baggage he has, it’s yours too.

You end up falling asleep in his lap so he carries you to bed, but he doesn’t follow your lead so quickly. He’s on his back and your head is on his chest, your arm curled around his torso, and his hand is underneath his shirt you’re wearing, fingers ghosting up and down your spine like you’re his favorite novel. He knows there are tear stains on your cheeks; it doesn’t matter that it’s too dark for him to be able to see them. By now it must be nearing 5 AM and you’re supposed to be up at 6:30. He’s not sure if you’re even going into work today.

Frank’s pretty certain you’re stronger than he is, even if you might think otherwise. And he loves you so much his heart swells, barely holding it all, and with every beat it runs the risk of bursting. You’re a book he’s holding close, one he reads and might not understand in its entirety but that’s okay because every line on every page of you is the holiest thing he’s ever heard.


End file.
